


Deadly

by soulresin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Heavenly Virtues, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), The Second Apocalypse - Freeform, World Travel, will add tags and CWs as they become relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 23:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20143759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulresin/pseuds/soulresin
Summary: In which Aziraphale and Crowley have freshly avoided ending the world, and just as they're starting to settle into a new normal, they're both harassed by upper (and lower) management about some new apocalyptic developments.





	Deadly

**Author's Note:**

> so you guys uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh want some ineffable husbands
> 
> I'm basically obsessed with Good Omens, and I just want you all to know that I'm Canadian, so my English English is not so great.

**** Crowley watched Aziraphale bustle around, wafting and fluttering about the shop front, adjusting books, swiping dust away from the shelves with a damp rag, sipping lukewarm tea. This had become the new normal since the thwarted apocalypse—Crowley pretended he worked at the book shop and mostly basked by the radiators, while Aziraphale tended to the stacks, fastidious as ever.

Crowley propped his feet up on the desk, idly picking the peel away from an orange. He surveyed the busy chaos from behind his glasses, which he continued to wear inside, as though they helped him to blend in (they didn’t). They did, however, make his expression more inscrutable so no one would be the wiser if he were watching Aziraphale like a hawk out of the corner of his eye.

Aziraphale had a way of making the huge space feel full of activity with his fussing, as though it were bursting with people, and Crowley wondered for a moment if maybe Aziraphale was miracling himself into two places at once when he heard the bell of the front door ring.

“Welcome, do come in, my dears,” Aziraphale blustered warmly to the mother and son who had wandered in from the misty morning drizzle. The woman flattened the boy’s unruly hair a little and ushered them both inside with a meek  _ hullo.  _ Aziraphale smiled in the way he does when a human does something terribly endearing.

The boy clomped further into the shop in yellow wellingtons a size too big. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and tilted his chin up to get a better look at Crowley before sniffling noncommittally and continuing to stare.

Crowley, for his part, raised an eyebrow at the boy, who held a jointed toy snake in his hands. Crowley had half a mind to make a scary face at him but continued peeling his orange, staring back.

The mother, once she had shaken off the umbrella outside the door and brushed away the rain from herself, steered the boy away by his shoulders, suggesting in a quiet voice that they look for the children’s books.

“Mummy, that man is in a costume, isn’t he?”

“Of course, darling.”

Aziraphale came to hover beside the cash register, dropping the rag on the counter and wringing his pale hands, which he tried to put into his coat pockets but couldn’t stand still and began fiddle with a small pile of receipts.

“What’s your problem, then?” Crowley asked, not bothering to look up from the orange he was separating into pieces into a piece of kitchen roll.

Aziraphale hesitated. “Prob--? Why--? I--I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, dear boy,” he huffed and shrugged off his prized overcoat and began to roll up his shirt sleeves. 

Crowley, who had spied him out the corner of his eye, almost had an aneurysm. Seeing Aziraphale in such a state of dishabille... it felt positively improper.

“Right, right, right.” Crowley nodded, managing to keep his jaw from unhinging as it nearly dropped open when Aziraphale loosened his bow tie a little. In fact, he managed to keep his face valiantly calm. “Of course. You’re just setting down your favourite coat to crease on the cash register, right. Completely normal, that. Don’t think I’ve seen your forearms since the Byzantine. But these _are_ strange times, I suppose.”

Aziraphale tugged at his collar and chewed the corner of his mouth before leaning his hip on the edge of the counter. He was turned conspiratorially toward Crowley. “I’m-- It’s just that-- Oh, bother--”

“Out with it,” Crowley snapped, rising to his feet and circling Aziraphale. “You’ve been acting strange all week, and it’s more than a little disconcerting, so _pray_ tell me what the heaven is on your mind.”

“I need to get away!” Aziraphale finally confessed, flapping his hands in frustration. He flushed a comely pink under Crowley’s attention.

Crowley goggled at his friend for a moment. “You what?”

“For heaven’s sake, I need a vacation, Crowley,” Aziraphale pouted, plucking at his sleeves. “It’s--it’s simply that…” He leaned forward to whisper. “It’s a little… Weird, in the magical, occult sense. Don’t you think? All of Adam’s additions to reality? Children are coming  _ in _ to the store and  _ buying _ the books he manifested. Buying!  _ My _ books!”

Crowley bit his lip to keep himself from laughing. He’d be a real bastard for laughing in Aziraphale’s face after asking… And Aziraphale was beginning to look sinfully dishevelled as his frustration unwound his normally unflappable resolve. 

And, honestly, Crowley would have walked across a dessert to see more of Aziraphale’s flushed neck as he continued to tug at his bowtie. And if light teasing and a little chaos made an angel’s clothes fall off, then… why not partake? “Children reading. A crime is what that is.” He offered half of the orange to Aziraphale, who resentfully snatched it from Crowley and began munching on the pieces.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Well, I can’t take it anymore.”

“Yes, let’s stop this plague of reading, shall we? We can’t have things like people learning or thinking on their own.” Crowley smirked. Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on Crowley for a moment.

“If you’re just going to make fun of me, I shan’t invite you along on my holiday,” Aziraphale declared and marched away. Crowley groaned, immediately regretting egging on an already tetchy angel.

“Oh, come on now. I was only teasing,” Crowley leapt to his feet and followed Aziraphale to the back room, where he was somehow angrily filling the teapot  _ at  _ Crowley. “I really didn’t mean it that way. I was just… you know… concerned that you weren’t acting like your usual holy self.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Oh,  _ really! _ ” He snapped the whistle closed on the kettle.

Crowley draped an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and steered him away from the kettle, which had miraculously boiled the instant Aziraphale had set it down on the (cold, unplugged) hot plate. “Look, I won’t do it again,” he ground out, just short of apologizing. “Tell me more about your vacation you want to take. We can start planning that, eh? The two of us going off together? Like I said before all this?”

Aziraphale stood with both his arms crossed, and he gave Crowley a measured look before cautiously intoning, “I was thinking the Côte d’Or, for starters.”

“Excellent choice. Gorgeous this time of year, Angel, tell me more,” Crowley said, pouring a cup of tea for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale began to unfold himself and sagged a little. “I’ve been so hoping to perhaps just get away from London, if only for a short while. I haven’t even seen Paris since the 1780s.”

“Bit of a chore to keep one’s head on one’s body, then.” Crowley handed over a steaming mug.

“Quite right.” Aziraphale smelled the tea indulgently and took a sip.

And then his stomach growled loudly, and he lifted his eyes sheepishly to meet Crowley’s. “Oh… oh dear. I believe I have been ‘hongry’ this morning, haven’t I?”

“It’s ‘hangry,’ Angel. But, I hadn’t noticed,” Crowley teased fondly, creasing a bit around the eyes. “Nothing a bit of takeaway can’t help,” Crowley said with a grin and a wink. “I’ll go pick it up, shall I? Some charcuterie?”

“Perhaps a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau, as well, to whet the appetite for travel?” Aziraphale requested timidly with a shy smile and twinkling eyes.

“You read my mind.”

* * *

Crowley had left the store, hands dug deep into his pockets and collar turned up against the wind, and Aziraphale watched him stalk down the street and slither into the driver’s seat of his black Bentley, that beastly terror of a vehicle. Aziraphale felt the swell of emotions in his chest--a rather annoying side effect of a circulatory system attached to a sympathetic nervous system--and attempted to quash them as they rose up his throat.

_ No, _ he chided himself.  _ Out of the question--how dare I to even presume…? Why, the chap’s been nothing more than a good friend to me since we met, and now I’m mooning over him like some-- _

Then Crowley looked back at him and waved.

Aziraphale blushed hard, the old fool. He waved coyly back and saw the ghost of an affectionate smirk on Crowley’s narrow face.

He rushed away from the window, shaking his head and attempting to geld his runaway heart. He was acting very out of character, though, wasn’t he? He ran back to the cash register and straightened up, shrugging back into his overcoat. _ Much better _ . He dusted his lapel and miracled a small white carnation there.

He toddled to the children’s section to find the only customers in the store. The boy was squatting in front of a shelf of science books, and his mother watched him tenderly from a reading chair not far away.

“Oh, there you are, dears. I say, it looks to be shaping up to be quite a lovely morning,” he chatted. “I’d reckon we’re in for some sunshine this afternoon, perhaps.”

The boy and his mother didn’t move a muscle.

“Er--Are you quite alright?” He approached slowly, becoming blindingly aware that not only did they not move a single muscle: they did not move a single  _ molecule _ . “Oh, bugger.”

Aziraphale knew the smell of an angel recently transported from HQ: faintly of ozone, electricity, and freshly mown grass. His whole body stiffened, and he felt as graceful as a bin wagon slowly turning to face the visitor.

“O, Aziraphale of the Heavenly Host, Principality of the Eastern Gate, and Guardian of Man’s Earth, Rare Book Dealer,” came a surprisingly loud voice. “I have finally found you.”

Aziraphale had to crane his neck to see the face of Seraphiel, whose corporeal form towered over him fully by a head. His hair had been tied back in a knot around his handsome ochre face, and he wore white trainers and raw denim.

“Ser-Seraphiel,” Aziraphale peeped.

And then, suddenly, Aziraphale was wrapped in a crushing embrace, his feet pinwheeling in midair. “Indeed it is I! Seraphiel of the Heavenly Host, Holy Protector of the Metatron, Guardian of the Heavenly Choir, and Sword and Shield of the Almighty.”

“SIR, SET ME DOWN AT ONCE, OR I SHALL BE VERY CROSS—” he shouted into Seraphiel’s goodly pectorals as he was crushed nearly to jelly.

“It is good to see you, my friend!” Seraphiel boomed before releasing Aziraphale, who scuttled backward, past the reach of long-limbed ethereals. “Long have I missed your presence in our choir. Long has it been since your voice has echoed in heaven!”

“I—it has been some time, now, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale said, adjusting his tie and vest primly.

“Since the very dawn of time! Over six thousand years!”

“My word, has it really been six thou—“ Aziraphale paused, remembering himself. “I’m terribly sorry for being such a bad host, and I don’t mean to be rude, but why have you come to call on me? Why, you never come to Earth, and… I thought my vacation would be approved at headquarters.”

Seraphiel laughed, a deep and rolling sound, like thunder. “O, Aziraphale of the Heavenl—”

“Yes, yes, Eastern Gate, et cetera,” Aziraphale urged, motioning for Seraphiel to continue.

“I do not know whether your vacation request has yet been processed since HR has been busy returning warrior angels to their administrative duties after the mix-up at Armageddon…” Seraphiel rumbled. “But I do have some… er, troubling news,” he admitted sheepishly. He bent his head toward Aziraphale and raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “ _ Deeply  _ troubling.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do, so he straightened himself and clasped his hands behind his back as he usually would when steeling himself. The protector of the Metatron had never come to earth in… well, the whole history of the earth, and that thought made him nervous. What business could a warrior have with a lowly, rogue angel? His mind raced, and he held out his wrists. “I—I’m very sorry to hear that. I suppose I’m under arrest now, aren’t I? For getting in the way of the ineffable plan?”

“What? No!” Rumbled Seraphiel, looking wounded. “I have come to ask your help.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Wha-- _ My _ help? What on Earth could you possibly need  _ my _ help for? You must be one of the most powerful angels—”

“Yes! I am powerful! The most powerful.” A wind whipped up inside the bookstore, and a small, but effective peal of thunder echoed through the stacks. “However; on  _ Earth _ , I am not the most powerful,” Seraphiel proclaimed. “I do not have the wiles to wage battle on Earth, as my existence has lately been to sing the praises of the Almighty and teach our fellow angels the hymns. I have only ever fought other angels before they fell, and that was millennia ago." He sighed wistfully. "I have never had to track a fleeing demon, or fight him in brutal and bloody hand-to-hand combat to the  _ death _ .” He clenched his fist, a warlike flash igniting in his eyes. “You and your... serpentine friend are well acquainted with Earth. I’d expect you’re experts on Earth and humans and the profane after living here this long.”

“Well, humans I can’t ever quite be sure about, but yes--”

“Harken to me,” Seraphiel said, suddenly very serious. “There are seven demons, and they are set to converge here on Earth. They are each very powerful, each of them wielding the power of temptation over humans. They will tempt you in ways you’ve never been tempted before.” Seraphiel had advanced on Aziraphale again. “They are warriors, and they’ll do anything for the immortal souls of man. They will wage battles the likes we have never seen in Heaven or Earth.”

“Seven demon warriors, you say?” Aziraphale squeaked. “My dear boy, I can scarcely handle  _ Crowley  _ by myself--”

“These demons are nothing like Crowley,” Seraphiel hissed, his eyes snapping back to Aziraphale. “Crowley is a kitten who would cower before these lions. They were promised a war, and their war was ended before it even began. Even the demon Lords have no control over these marauders, and they will plunder earth until it has no more souls left for salvation. They will make their own Judgement Day, and you must stop them. You know the hearts of humans, and you can stop the demons' temptations. You  _ know _ the demon Crowley—you can use that knowledge for Her divine glory.”

Aziraphale heard a whining sound, and he realized it was he himself making it. He cleared his throat and stammered, “What do you expect m— how exactly should I—?”

Seraphiel crowded him against one of the book stacks. Aziraphale suddenly felt like a very captive audience. “I do not rightly know, but I am standing here before you, pleading. If Her ineffable plan had not included me standing here, I would not be here. Don’t you see?”

“The plan  _ is _ ineffable,” Aziraphale conceded. “But even as angels, we cannot presume—”

“We’re angels, fighting for the souls of every living human. If there are demons out there who want a fight, then by God, we can give them a fight.” Seraphiel punched the air with a hefty fist, giving Aziraphale a look of savage delight.

“A… a f-fight.” Aziraphale deflated. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid. The Almighty truly worked in bafflingly, annoyingly mysterious ways.

Oh, bebother the confounded ineffable plan! As Seraphiel stepped away to leave, Aziraphale chased after him. “Seraphiel, I don’t  _ want _ a war. I  _ foiled the bloody apocalypse _ to avoid war. All I wanted to do is go to the south of France, drink wine, get fat on carbohydrates, and spend time with— er, with...”

Seraphiel made a wounded face. “I would not ask for your help if I did not believe you could do it. I am asking you to track the demons down, not fight. I shall battle them myself.”

“And if I were remotely interested in helping you, how am I supposed to track down demons I’ve never met? Much less demon warriors?”

Seraphiel smiled knowingly. “You will find a way.” He settled a palm as large as a dinner plate on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You found a way the last time the world was ending. You have a month before their unholy convergence.”

“But I—”

“It is settled. When you find the demons, you will call to me: Seraphiel of the Heavenly Host, Holy Protect—”

“I didn’t agree to any of this!”

And, like that, Seraphiel vanished, and Aziraphale was left standing in the stacks of his shop, hyperventilating as the humans resumed their day as though nothing had happened and certainly as though their matter has not been muddled with by an ethereal interloper.

“Are you OK, mister?”

* * *

Crowley had no sooner peeled away from A.Z. Fell and Co. than smelled an electric kind of brimstone and felt the telltale crackle of reality as a demon manifested in his passenger seat. He sighed beleagueredly.

“My Lord Crowley.”

He barely moved but for his snakelike golden eyes. “Azazel.”

“Hate to disturb you,” Azazel lied, crossing his arms. He was childlike in size, and nearly grey in colour, dressed in layers too thick for even London’s autumn. A crow peered at Crowley from Azazel's head and croaked blearily.

“I’m sure.” Crowley rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses. “So tell me: what has brought you all the way up here? You all can’t have missed me so badly since we cancelled the end of the world.”

“Now that’s a bit of a tangle of red tape, actually,” Azazel sneered. He picked at his filthy fingernails, and propped his bebooted feet on the dash. “And, as you might imagine, there’s a bit of a backlog in HR as we move all our battalions back into their administrative roles. So, bugger me, I guess, because I’m looking for a free agent to help me out with a bit of field work that no one else seems to want to do right now.”

“You’ll take your bloody feet off the dashboard first,” Crowley spat. Azazel laughed and tapped his feet together, filth knocking off onto the spotless patina.

“Haven’t you heard, my Lord? The world is ending again,” Azazel chuckled. “Only this time, you’ll have seven angels to deal with personally.”

“Rubbish,” Crowley dared.

“It’s true,” Azazel cawed, and he leaned in to Crowley, finally turning to face him, taking a thick sheaf of papers from his coat and setting them down between them. “Please acquaint yourself with the Angelic Special forces team. All seven of them are battle-hardened, demon-smiting sons-of-bitches, and they’re on the hunt right now.”

“And who exactly are you hearing this from?” Crowley snapped.

Azazel chuckled. “From our boots on the ground.”

“What the heaven does that even mean?  _ I’m  _ your boots on the ground.”

“You’ll see soon enough. Anyway, I thought I’d pop by and deliver all of the bad news myself.”

“I literally cannot think of anything worse you could tell me.”

“Yeah, well, regardless of whether you want to, you work for me now.”

Crowley snorted.

Azazel laughed, a bitter, shrill note. “Say hello to the newest Prince of Hell, and your manager.”

Crowley slammed on the breaks, screeching to a halt in the middle of London traffic. The echo of a demonic chuckle dissipated with a sulphuric wisp of smoke as Azazel departed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr dot com, too
> 
> follow me: trashfave.tumblr.com


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